


Worship at the Altar

by samanthalo



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: All-tied up, F/M, Kristanna Smut Week, Profound and deep, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 16:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1825348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthalo/pseuds/samanthalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Kristanna Smut Week on Tumblr - Prompt #1 - All Tied Up</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worship at the Altar

There's something about the way they crash together like water upon the shore that always gets her thinking deep, profound thoughts about life. She's never considered herself very spiritual. Yes, there is something magical about the soprano's aria in the chapel and the priest's rousing oratory about angels and demons and God above them all. There is awe and enchantment in the haunting lilt of words spoken in Latin and the stream of sunshine through stained-glass windows, but that's the only connection she feels. Sitting in the pews, she finds herself less drawn to the Lord and more to the pull and sway of the world around them, the tides in the fjord, the wind in the trees.

 

Once Mama and Papa are gone, she feels this even moreso. Elsa makes daily pilgrimages to the Royal Chapel and Anna watches her sometimes, poised on her knees before the statue of Mother Mary. Her lips move in silence. Her prayers are not Anna's to receive and Anna cannot bear to join the vigil. She takes no comfort from Mary; She wants her own mother, no matter how petulant and childish such thoughts sound. There is an empty, hollow part of her now that she fills with whatever she can get her hands on, anything to keep her from thinking about life and death and the question of ghosts.

 

Kristoff attends to her as if she is a treasure, an object of great import that must only be touched with the deepest sense of reverence and respect. Tonight, when he ties the rope from his pack around her wrists, he does so gently and slowly, taking his time weaving the heavy coil until her arms are firmly incapacitated. She waits quietly on her knees, eyes opening when she feels and hears him move around the edge of the bed.

 

God, she thinks when his naked form comes into view. Firelight throws the contours of his massive body into chiaroscuro effect. The ridges of his ribs are aflame. Wide shoulders rise and fall with slow, deep breaths. The thick length of his manhood rolls against the flat, narrow plane of his hips. Her vision narrows as he leans forward to run wide fingers through her loosened hair. She cannot help the shaky intake of breath that slowly rips through her mouth at the feeling of his short, nibbled nails on her scalp.

 

She's never been one for scripture but his touch dips down over her chin, along the slope of her neck and downwards to her right breast and verses about angels ring between her ears. Then I looked and heard the voice of many angels, numbering thousands upon thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand. His thumb brushes against her hard peak and she arches into the sensation, keening deep in her throat. Kristoff responds, repeating the action, letting his rough pad drag across her once more, this time slowly and purposeful. There is no hurry. She knows he will not rush, no matter how much she might beg, no matter how much she may fall apart.

 

His other hand slips just beneath her unattended breast and holds her ribs in place as he bends to capture her nipple in his mouth. She burns inside, against his tongue, looping in lazy circles to draw forth as many whimpers from her throat as possible. He begins to suckle and she throws her head backwards. The wet sounds of him latched to her breast begin to make her dizzy. She's very aware of his fingers dancing along the tops of her thighs, even as her focus is drawn like a lightning rod to the interruption of lightly scraping teeth.

 

She cannot resist and she cants her hips, rising up on her knees, angling her body in invitation. It is impossible to quantify just how much she desires those fingers inside of her, stretching her open and pressing against places known only to him and to him alone. The hands tied behind her open and close. The nails dig into the palms. They are her hands but she can think only of her breasts and the tingling path of gooseflesh he leaves in his wake, the throbbing, soaking ache between her thighs.

 

Kristoff resists. Instead of dragging his touch where she wants, he joins her on the mattress and hooks a strong arm behind her. Those same gentle fingers now firmly take the swell of her backside and pull her close. She feels the velvet-smooth skin of his cock between them, sliding along her stomach just beside her belly button and knows, exultantly and wantonly, that soon it will be pressed inside of her and she will be whole. She wants this feeling, this release, so desperately that she can barely control her body. She moans and slides her torso against him and knows this is why he binds her. So he can worship her as he wishes. So she can know this beauty and savor it.

 

His mouth relinquishes its claim on one breast only to conquer the next and Anna bites her lips against the cry bubbling up from the pit of her stomach. She feels alive in his embrace. Every hair follicle stands at attention. Every pore of skin is awake and ready to receive him, his scent, his sweat, his saliva as his mouth continues its campaign and overwhelms her lips. The tongue so skillfully bringing her to ecstasy slips along the sharp edge of her teeth before running along her swollen, bottom lip. His taste cannot be describe but she craves it more than chocolate, more than sun, more than air.

 

Please. Please. Please. She shudders against him as he twists their bodies on the bed. He lays back on their pillows and adjusts her legs so she's straddling his waist. The head of his cock comes to rest in the split of her ass. So close, yet so far. She grinds her center ever-so-slightly against his lower abdomen, seeking friction, looking down through heavy-lidded eyes. Their eyes meet and she knows he feels the same spark. His hands return to her body. One grasps her trembling, circling hips. The other gently delves between her legs, dipping into the pink juncture of moist flesh to find that little nub of -

 

It's the light press of his index and middle finger that makes her almost sob with relief. She pulls against the rope upon her wrists without even realizing. If not for his grip upon her, she would be a writhing mess of a woman.

 

“Look at me.” He commands and she obeys, hooking her gaze into his as his touch becomes insistent. Every so often, she feels his own hips rise, feels the smooth slip of his cock against her skin. He's so hard but he won't give in. Not yet. He moves his wrist relentlessly and she's so wet and so ready and God, God, he's pushing against her opening with two fingers, three fingers, and she's so open and it feels so good.

 

“Look at me.” He demands, his voice strained and low. He likes this part best, she thinks, when she's above him but completely at his mercy. He moves slow and steady as if memorizing every inch of silken skin inside of her, all the while hungrily devouring the sheen of desire coating her skin, the bend of her eyebrows as she whines and watches him watching her.

 

Take me for I am yours, she blearily thinks as he presses up as far as he can reach, hear me when I cry aloud; Be gracious and answer me.

 

“Kristoff, please-” She is breathless and he is quickly arriving to that point himself.

 

“You are beautiful.” He whispers with reverence. He is not referring to her flushed skin, or the freckles on her shoulders, or even the halo of mussed hair around her dampened face. Its her total surrender that moves him. Kristoff is a simple man. He wants for nothing but the clothes upon his back, the steadfast companion at his side, the errant carrot in his pack. He asks for nothing, not the comfortable room he is given to stay in when in the city, not the luscious dinners plated before him each evening he is home, not even her love. But he accepts everything and he accepts her love most of all.

 

Tonight, he receives all that she offers with love and no short amount of total devotion. She is trembling when he removes his fingers, brings them to his lips. He washes one finger clean and presents her the other. Anna does not hesitate; Her lips part. She takes his finger to the knuckle and removes any trace of her from his skin. His eyes trace over the small movements of her jaw as her tongue rolls up and over and around and she knows they're thinking the same thing.

 

In the end, Kristoff decides that there is a time and a place for all things and there will be a season for other unspeakable acts later. He pulls himself free from her clutches and lifts her easily, so very easily, and props her up on her knees so he can reach between their bodies and grasp his member. It would be too easy to simply settle her down upon his length. Instead, Kristoff rubs the shining plum bulb of its head along the red wetness of her slit, coating himself for the first time that night. A promise. A breathless prayer.

 

Take me, Anna practically screams, shoulders cramping, wrists rubbing raw against the rope, and he finally pushes himself against her opening and he's sliding inside, up and up and deeper and deeper until her hips are pressed against his hips and there's nothing between them anymore but skin and bone and muscle and even that isn't enough to keep them apart.

 

She makes an honest effort but there's only so much she can do with her arms pinned behind her back. There is no other choice but to let Kristoff control the pace. It is a blissful, painful surrender but she gives herself over to him willingly, head lolling on the gentle shelf of her shoulders, muscles taut as his solid size applies the most infuriatingly amazing pressure to the inside of her sex.

 

He shifts them once more, peeking through the darkened fringe of his blonde hair at her flushed face as he curls his long legs beneath her and sits up against the headboard. This new position does not completely satisfy but it certainly helps and she rocks herself insistently against the scruffy patch of hair just above where they're joined. He brands her with his touch, once more reaching to claim the cushion of her backside, simultaneously pressing a gentle thumb against her pout.

 

There is love in every motion, every caress, and Anna closes her eyes and lifts her voice to the empty heaven of the bedroom ceiling. It is no aria but is her own beautiful song. There are no statues or candles, but there is the amazing sound of Kristoff's heart beating in her ears and the electric jump of his pulse as it pumps inside of his neck, in his wrists and inside of her.

 

She always believed death to be the ultimate moment of vulnerability, when your life was laid bare before the powers that be, but death is nothing compared to this near-fatal state of bliss. Here she worships, legs splayed, naked as the day she was brought into this world, her eternal soul shining radiantly just beneath perspiration and racing, hammering veins full of blood, full of life. She is alive and he reminds her every day, but tonight, gritting teeth with the effort of pouring himself into her, he proves it to her.

When she comes, he swallows her screams into his own mouth, into his own heart and soul, and comes with her, because of her.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, I'm not very good at PWP.


End file.
